


Moon And Destiny

by Tolpen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Wizardry (Video Games)
Genre: (Which aren't relevant), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Archetypes, Distrust, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Epic Battles, Fate & Destiny, Footnotes, High Fantasy, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Psionics, Religion, Swords & Sorcery, Visions, like you have no idea how much "Archetypes" these archetypes are, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-09-25 07:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: With the weapons of Ceirdan stolen, nothing is stopping the war-lusting Rapax and their Demon-Goddess from attacking the kingdom of Highguard and then the whole world of Dominus!Only two men are brave or foolish enough to venture into the hostile Bayjinn to recover the mighty artifacts: Jean Valjean, a highwayman turned a monk of the Brotherhood of Ascension, Ceridan's followers, and Javert, a diviner of the Highguard Moon Legion whose shadows come to haunt him no matter how hard he tries to leave them behind. On their quest they have to learn to put their shared past behind, and to trust each other with their life, their sanity and their heart.And in the north the Demon-Goddess begins to feel her freedom...Based onNuizlaziai's Fantasy!AU





	1. The Monastery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuizlaziai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuizlaziai/gifts).

> Update 1st September 2019 AD: Now every chapter begins with one of the many loading screens from Wizardry 8, always appropriate to the place the particular chapter takes place in. This loading screens I have rightfully stolen and let me tell you my dear fellows that it was a major pain in me arse, because they are hidden within a .SFL data file, somewhere in the middle, and just _getting_ to them was super annoying. Not because it was complicated, but because it took so long.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Moon Legion arrives at the Monastery and seriously hates working with or for the Brotherhood of Ascension.

The remnants of the stained glass creak and shatter under the heavy plate sabatons. The men clad in deep red robes watch the armoured figures walk through the raided monastery in careful silence.

Abbot Karles welcomes them with a bow. “Captain, be welcomed. Thank you for coming in these times of need.”

The Captain nods curtly. “Poorly met. Why is it you called us?”

The Abbot gestures around. Broken windows, the door hangs on only on hinge. The walls covered in murals have been given a new layer consisting of blood and mud.

“As gruesome as this raiding seems,” the Captain regards their surroundings, “it hardly elucidates your specific request for us to bring a diviner.”

“But have you brought her?” Abbot Karles inquires.

“Him,” the Captain corrects the man of the cloth. “And yes, he came with us.” He makes a harsh motion and his men step aside. From within their midst a tall man dressed in silver and blue robes steps out. He is of dark hair and piercing eyes. He salutes to both his Captain and the Abbot.

“And with whom have I the honour to speak, brother?” The Abbot bows to the diviner, but not deeply. After all, this man is just a diviner, not an officer.

The man salutes: “Diviner Javert of the Moon Legion, sir_._”

Karles smiles gently: “I am no sir, brother Javert.”

“I am no brother, _sir_.”1

Several monks clench their fists. Immediately the men of the Moon Legion have their hands on their maces.

“I see,” the Abbot says. “Perhaps it would be for the best if I took you to see what has happened here. You see, we have been robbed.”

  


Their footsteps echo on the wooden bridge above the underground lake.

“The Brotherhood began its sacred duty here and built their first sanctuary with the walls of this very cavern. The water of this lake is healing-”

“Father Karles,” the Captain interrupts him urgently, “if we wanted to learn about the history of your beloved Brotherhood of Ascension, which we all already know anyway, we would have visited the library. What is it that had been stolen from you?” He stops in his tracks and visibly pales. “Do not tell me that it they took the-”

“No,” the Abbot assures him. “The Desitnae is heavily warded. Only a madman would consider stealing it, and only a genius truly could. The object that have been stolen are less important for the future of the universe and more important for the future of the Highguard.”

They stand in front of what looks like it had once been a solid metal door, two times as tall as Javert, who is not a short man, and four times as wide. Over a half of the metal, however, is missing, and the sharp stench of acid doesn’t leave it to wondering where it has gone.

Inside was a marble sarcophagus, forcibly opened with it’s lid thrown on the ground. Pieces of the white-and-rosy stone have been chipped off. The floor was is and muddy, the stench of acid could compare only to the smell of rotting fish.

Behind the sarcophagus stands another of the brothers, hod drawn low over his face. Most monks relies on their martial arts and carry no weapon on their body that is not of their flesh and bone. Some of them, especially the elderly, pride themselves with a staff. This man, however, has a sword at his side. He stands still, relaxed yet wary.

“This,” the Abbot explains, “is the tomb of Ceirdan.”

The soldiers of the Moon Legion do not whisper to each other in excitement, their discipline does not allow for that. But to them Ceirdan is just as important figure as to the Brotherhood of Ascension, a rare common ground.

Abbot Karles motions to the sarcophagus in which the embalmed and mummified remains of the Protector of the Highguard and the founder of the Brotherhood of Ascension lays. The body has been left intact, but otherwise the casket is empty. “As you know, Ceirdan had been buried with the weapons forged against the Demon-Goddess. I know that the peace treaties with the Rapax still stand-”

“If the Rapax king gets the wind of this, they won’t for long,” one of the Legionnaires mutters.

“Corporal!”

The man looks ashamed. “My apologies, Captain Mylo.”

“As right as you might be, you are not meant to speak out of order. Who had taken the weapons?” The Captain turns back to the Abbot as the diviner kneels down and inspects the floor. The guardian monk has not yet moved.

The Abbot sighs: “We do not know. Captain Mylo turns to the monk with the sword, but he only shakes his head.

Javert is still kneeling on the ground, one large hand on the slick tiles, when he speaks: “The Rynjinn. About ten of them. Climbed up from the east through the waterfall, searched the monastery, desecrated what they found, took the artefacts and fled the same way they came through.” He stands up and wipes the ooze caught on his fingers in his robes.

The Abbot smiles: “I see that your divinations are very specific.”

Javert’s look is that of a man who has been deeply offended: “I only stated the obvious,” he gestures at the muddy tracks left behind, “no divination needed. I am baffled as why you did not realize this yourself. Why had nobody started an alarm when they intruded?”

The monk who has yet not spoken now says very quietly: “They left behind no one to raise an alarm. So far we have counted fifteen dead, throats slit. The rest of my brothers and I were in the laid-off wings - we have not been found and we have not known.” With that he withdraws back again. 

The diviner people pierces him with his eyes.

“Very well, Javert, but if the Rynjinn took them, to where and why then?”

“I presume to their lair in the swamps. Why, that I do know.”

Abbot Karles clasps his hands together. “For the safety of the whole Highguard, the weapons must be recovered. Should we ever stand against Rapax and their Demon-Goddess, they are our only hope.”

Captain Mylo sighs deeply and rubs the bridge of his nose. “The swamps are out of my jurisdiction. The Legion fort there has been abandoned for years now, ever since the, um, _incident_. There has been an agreement.” He sighs again and then he adds: “I don’t like this. I am not one for pleasantries, of all the people in the whole Highguard, you and your bloody Brotherhood are the one I am the least willing to extend my help to -”

“Well,” Abbot Karles mutters with a stone-faced expression, facing directly the armed men of the law, “of all people in Highguard, you and the Legion are the last I would ask for help if I had any other choice.”

“- _but_ this is for the safety for us all.” Mylo shoots him a look which luckily cannot kill. “But as I said: The swamp is officially no longer a Highguard ground, I cannot order my men to go there, even the few I can spare.”

“And the swamps aren’t exactly known for its hospitality. My sons and brothers are scholars first and guardians second. They haven’t been trained as warriors,” Karles nods grimly.

“We could ask the King for an army of volunteers.” Captain Mylo knows he says this idea only to say something, and he knows that the Abbot knows it too. The volunteering group would get here in a year, perhaps. And in a year it could be too late.

“We could, yes,” the Abbot agrees with the same lack of enthusiasm.

Then the diviner speaks, slowly and quietly: “I could easily go on my own and of my own will. Searching for the weapons of Ceirdan is my duty. I am a diviner, it should not be hard for me to locate them.”

The Captain and the rest of the legionnaires look at him strangely. “Javert, that is a suicide mission for one man. Very low chance of you ever returning, let alone being successful.”

The diviner lowers his eyes and a sad smile blooms on his face: “It is still the biggest chance we have.”

\---------

1Javert casts Mind Stab at Abbot Karles -- 6 damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Father Karles... is not exactly Bishop Myriel. But you can imagine him as Bishop Myriel. His role in the story is practically the same, I only refuse to spend to write 18K words about him for this. At least, I refuse so now.
> 
> Since day 1 of writing this prompt I knew I wanted this story to be set into the world of Wizadry, namely Dominus as featured in Wizardry 8. At first I thought that I'd go and change the names a bit - the Rynjinn were called Ampholks (as amphibian folks), the Rapax was Xarap and so on. But then I realized that in the entirety of Les Mis fandom there are about three or four people who know Wizardry and that I one of them and the rest doesn't go on AO3 because they are too vintage for AO3. So, who cares, right? (Surprise me: Tell me you have played Wizardry. It doesn't matter, though, because this whole story takes place cca 600 years before the whole Dark Savant trilogy.)  
The only thing that remains from the original re-naming idea is the Highguard and the Moon Legion, which would later certainly evolve in Higardi (try to say Highguard out loud) and the Lunar Legion. Yes, Javert is a HLL officer, the only police force found in Wizardry 8. And yes, even back then they were absolute suckers with morning stars.
> 
> I have other fantasy worlds in which I could place this story in. But Raven's world is too... parodic for this, other one is steampunk!magic and another is purely sci-fi. Besides, the universe of Wizardry is a great high fantasy if you forget all the spaceships.  
(I like spaceships in fantasy. Unfortunately, this story does not contain a single spaceship.)


	2. The Triple Arch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert is given an unwanted help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So finally we are touching the source material here.](https://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com/post/184988425457/fantasy-valvert-for-plaidmax-that-i-got-a-tiny)

The hospitality of the Brotherhood required the Abbot to insist the Moon Legion does not return back to their headquarters in Arnika and instead stay the night. The opportunism of the Moon Legion and all police forces everywhere commanded the Captain to accept the invitation.1

There was a dinner at the main hall at sundown, then the evening reading from the Book of Destiny, which most of the Legionnaires excused themselves from, followed by the last praying of the day. Most of the monks and Legionnaires went to beds, a few wandered to the meditation hall, among them the diviner known as Javert.

He is sitting at the topmost step to the belfry, eyes closed, hands palms up on his knees, his back rested against the heavy wooden door. He appears peaceful. A few of the monks, brother Anthonidas and brother Braffitt exchange an appreciative nod at the perfect stillness.

Javert is not meditating.

In the whole meditation hall every kind of magic is strictly prohibited2 but the belfry is not part of it. Magic is necessary to ring the three gigantic bells of the monastery.3

Javert’s position is strategic because technically he is not in the meditation hall. Javert is doing magic. Namely, he is scrying. His vision is not here, it is in the Abbot’s office while the Abbot himself is not aware of it. Or if he is, he gives no indication of it, but Javert doubts it; he has honed his scrying skills to as perfect as it is possible for him.

Even this late in the night the Abbot has a visitor - it is the monk with sword from earlier, now without the weapon. The man kneels in front of the Abbot and takes his hood down. Were Javert to be present there in flesh, he would gasp, but now his vision only flickers as he is overcome with shock and emotions for he knows the man.

“You wished to see me, Father.”

“Please, Valjean, sit down.”

The monk sits down in one of the worn velvet armchairs, visibly uncomfortable. Abbot Karles takes the seat opposite of him and sets between them two glasses and a pitcher of water down on the table. He pours them both.

He speaks only after he has emptied his glass: “Neither of us is an eloquent man, Valjean, I’ll strike to the heart of the matter. The diviner does not seem to be a fighter and the swamps are not filled with only the Rynjinn. Should he go alone, he shall perish.”

That is no news to Javert.

“I want you to accompany him.”

Valjean’s face is downright terrified: “Father, I beg you, no.”

The Abbot remains silent.

“Please, not Javert. We have crossed ways before. Perhaps to any other man I could be of assistance, but Javert will not let me.”

There is a sigh. The Abbot is an old man, worn with life and knowledge. “When you came to this monastery, brother,” he starts slowly, “you were in the percipience of your mind, you were torn in two. You sought both oblivion and absolution, you refused both forgiveness and punishment. But you were content to stay and heal, to repent your past life and grow anew. You can think of this as a trial of your rebirth if necessary, but all that this is a necessity.”

What the rest conversation between Valjean and Karles is, Javert does not know. His inner turmoil makes it impossible for him to keep the scrying for any longer. His vision blackens and when he comes back to his senses, he finds himself drenched in sweat and blood running from his nose.

The meditation hall is empty, no one is there to witness his indignity.

They set to the journey shortly after the sunrise. The Moon Legion is still packing their armour and lounging around the refectory, sipping coffee and eating breakfast and only a few of the men say parting words to Javert. None of them says a word to Valjean when the Abbot and the Captain inform everyone that he will be accompanying the diviner.

Brother Braffitt gives them their blessings before they head off. Javert tries to protest, but Braffitt looks at him and says: “If not for yourself, then allow me to bless you for the peace of my own mind. Let me see you embarking with the knowledge that I did all that is within my power.” And thus even Javert, devoid of any faith in the Ascension or the Cosmic Lords, receives a blessing.

Brother Braffitt is also the only one who accompanies them on their way out of the monastery, all the way to the triple arch which has been naturally formed from a single piece of rock by wind and sand,4 which marks the unofficial border of the monastery property. He stands there, looking at Valjean’s back until his brother disappears among the rocks along the road.

The mixture of sand and gravel creaks underneath their boots as they walk. Valjean suspects that Javert has chosen this tempo of pace to irritate him. They have been walking for an hour now and are close to exit the rocky labyrinth which separates the monastery from the rest of the world. He is almost out of breath all the time as he is trying to match the diviner’s speed. There has not been an opportunity to talk yet.

When they reach the last crossroad, marked by a tall spire of sandstone in the middle of it, Valjean leans on the cool rocky wall and pants: “Javert, please, wait.”

Javert makes a few more steps but when he realizes that Valjean is not actually following, he stops in his tracks and turns around. “What is it?” he barks out, the sharpness of his voice cutting like a blade.

“I know, I know you don’t trust me, but working together on this is the only way to survive.” Valjean pulls himself up straighter.

“Trust? You?” Javert spits the words out as if they were venom and he was a seeker.5 “You must think me insane! I am not trusting the likes of you!”

Valjean sighs. “I know, I am aware. This was not my choice either.”

At that, Javert only scoffs. “Yes, the Abbot entrusted my life into the hands of a highwayman.”

“I only stole food to survive,” Valjean defends himself, “it is not like I killed anybody. I served my sentence, I found faith, I changed. I _changed_, Javert.”

“Men like you,” Javert growls, “can never change.”

Valjean bites down his urge to snap at him in response. “The Abbot asked me to-”

“I know what the Abbot asked of you!” He makes a couple of steps towards the other man, his robes raising the sand at his feet.

The white haired monk’s face is that of a statue before shattering when he asks: “Then why do you want to resist me. I am here only to help you. Lend a sword when needed.”

“Or plunge it into my back, I assume.”

There is no answer to that. They stand there like that for a long while, in the shadows cast by the sandstone formations, winds howling above their heads within the labyrinth.

Finally Valjean speaks quietly: “We should go.”

They continue. Javert attempts to maintain his previous pace, but finds that he has to stop every so often, because Valjean now walks slowly, almost as thought he was dragging chains on his ankles.

\---------

1Nobody is happy about this, which makes it a good compromise for both parties.

2It says so on the discrete plaque you can find mounted on the wall right next to the door. To ensure the adherence to this monastery directive the whole hall is encircled with the Ward of Silence.

3But only because the world of Dominus has not yet discovered electromagnets.

4And some very vicious crabs, unexpected tidal waves and ever present vandals.

5A seeker is a two-legged venomous motherfucker with no eyes and a long tail. You can theoretically train them to sniff out things of your interest, but the results, however great, are hardly worth the effort or amount of antivenom you have consume. They are annoying vermin and they are after your pantry. The distance at which they can spit their venom is always a bit further than you think the safe distance to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, you cannot cast magic at the staircase leading to the belfry from the meditation room, but I suppose Javert is bugging through texture here or something.
> 
> As per Brother Braffitt... Look, if he is the same person as Lord Braffitt in W8 Arnika Temple, he'd be over 600 years old. I am not saying that it's not him, though. After all, he's visited Trynton, who knows what he drank there.


	3. Arnika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final preparations are made in Arnika

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter, as it can be summed up as "Nothing much happened there," but some things needed to be set in place for future motion. Besides, as you have already noticed, I am sure, the chapters are representing locations, so the chapter named Arnika contains only what happens in Arnika.

Once they make it out of the labyrinth and reach the dusty road, walking becomes much easier. There is no sand or gravel slipping and opening underneath their feet, no difficult maze which man can navigate only if he knows the signs carved into the walls. But they have also left behind the cool shade cast by the jagged rocky formations and now the sun is mercilessly shining in their eyes as they take the road south.

The road leads them to Arnika, the last bastion of proper civilisation this far north-east in Highguard. Despite this status, the coastal town seems sleepy and idyllic. On the first look, anyway.

Among many people milling about in the streets, Valjean feels lost. His fear of Javert is great but his fear of people is greater. Javert’s actions are predictable and his hate of him reasonable. The actions and motives of the crowd far less so. Thus Valjean keeps as close to the Legion diviner as possible without actually clinging to him.

“I need to take my belongings from the station on the way,” Javert explains why they entered Arnika in the first place. “I was packed only lightly to visit the monastery and did not expect a long journey. I need my things.”

Valjean only nods at it and offer to wait at the town-square for he has no desire to accompany Javert to the Moon Legion headquarters, not to mention he has no permission to enter.

The diviner eyes him what Valjean would describe as concern in other men, but what makes him afraid when Javert does it. Javert’s eyes are much like the sea - cold, deep, dark, colour shifting between light blue and wine-dark, merciless and full of monsters which stare through your soul as if it was nothing.

“What?” he asks him cautiously.

Javert replied curtly: “You are packed only very lightly for such a travel.”

“My material belongings are very few and I carry them all,” Valjean motions to his bag and his sword.

Javert scoffs: “That implies your _spiritual_ belongings are greater.”

“On the contrary. My peace has been stolen from me.”

“Stolen?” Javert seems amused. “Who is the culprit?”

Valjean looks away.

An understanding dawns. “Oh.”

“I will wait for you here. If I am not here, then I have notices blacksmith’s on the corner.”

Javert walks away.

It is two hours later when Javert emerges from the barracks and make it through the headquarters out of the Moon Legion grounds. Valjean is not on the town square. Javert regrets not taking something of the man’s belongings to use as a tracker, but as it is, he has to do the search the old fashioned way.

It is nothing dramatic, because Valjean indeed is at the blacksmith’s shop and seems that he has just been leaving. He looks almost nothing like when they left the monastery earlier this morning, but to Javert this form is far more familiar.

The old man has shed the robe of a monk. Whether or not he had been wearing the doublet with a long/sleeved tunic and pants underneath it was impossible to determine. The high boots, however, those he had in the morning. The spaulders are a new addition, as well as the leather gloves. With the man’s every sudden movement Javert can hear quiet metal clanking and closer inspection confirm his suspicion - underneath the doublet Valjean wears armour of riveted chain-mail. There is also a cloak, old and torn, its colours faded into uncertain grey with hints of lost navy blue.

The monk is gone. All that remains in his place is a warrior.

Before there are any questions asked, Javert says as a way of explanation of his presence: “I did not find you on the square.”

“Yes, I was here.”

“That has not eluded me.”1

They stand there in the following awkward quietness interrupted only by the smith’s hammer and bellows working in the next room. His helper, daughter but nobody’s ever asked her for that relation, cannot stand the tension and sees them out.

There are things they need but do not own.

“Like what?” asks Valjean

Javert supplies: “Rope, for example. To tie you to a tree every night so you wouldn’t kill me in my sleep.”

Valjean takes a deep breath and does not dignify the poor jest with an answer. When he refuses to enter the shop, Javert knows he pushed it too much and leaves him to wait outside.

When he returns, coil of rope strapped to his backpack, he finds Valjean leaning on the dockyard fence across the street. The man has his back turned, staring into the brown-green water on which ivory-coloured foam bobbles and crashes upon the wooden beams preserved in salt.

Javert takes stand next to him, but instead of down he is looking up, watching the seagulls. There is no indication that Valjean acknowledges his presence.

“Technically it would be easiest to take a ship to Bayjinn,” he says.

There is no answer.

Javert continues: “Of course, I don’t think that even the King would be able to pay even the most starved fisherman to set course anywhere near Bayjinn.”

Nothing. Valjean lets out a huffy breath, but he says nothing.

“As it is, we will have to walk. Let us go.”

Valjean picks his bag up and they leave the docks and subsequently Arnika and its busy streets.

The sun is high overhead and the wind is chilly.

A small brown haired child with smart eyes watches them leave until they disappear in the turn of the road serpenting its way through the hilly land.

“What an odd couple,” she whispers to herself.

\---------

1The author is not sure if this is the best piece of dialogue or the worst one that ever came to existence. Nevertheless, it is a piece of dialogue that exists and now it is entirely your problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That child is Cosette. But I'm sure you all realize that.  
Also, finally they are the Wizard&Warrior duo they were meant to be.  
Are you reading the notes? No? Oh, alright. I wanted to ask you to feed me some comments, that's all.


	4. The Highland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues despite our heroes are unable to bear each other.  
[Read: It's on old married couple bickering, it's just hurtful, they are idiots. Mainly Javert is an idiot. And an ass]
> 
> Chapter spoiler: [This scene](https://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com/post/185045598542/so-uuh-i-did-more-fantasy-au-with-the-help-of) I was especially looking forward to writing. But I needed to set up for it.

They walk in silence along the path winding through the Arnika Hinterland.1 Neither of them knows what to say. Neither of them knows what they would want to hear. They have nothing to say to each other, nothing that wouldn’t fall on deaf ears anyway.

For half an hour they have been searching for a place to camp for the night without much success. To the south the places look more favourable, but they are on the border with the old burial sites. Javert is not a man of any convinced belief, but he has taken a witness statement from a ghost more than one time. Spirits disturbed in old places such as the burial site of old Runemar would not take to intruders kindly and they would not listen to a reason. They wouldn’t listen at all.

And so they keep moving forward between the trees and hills as the night prepares to descend. Soon they will have stop being picky and just set to rest in the place they will find themselves at in that moment. But for now they can afford to search for a place not so exposed, no in a nook which a night storm could flush out, a place where fire ants or seekers wouldn’t ambush them.

The day has been calm and quiet for the longest time, devoid of any direct conflict. They haven’t even met a single highwayman,2 despite the fact that they very much favoured this particular road. This feat is a collaboration of both men; Valjean recognizing the signs of the cut-throats’ presence and leading his companion on less frequented paths and even off them across the hills and through small patches of trees, and Javert often hearing anyone before they even come to their sight, so the two of them are able to change their course and avoid any encounter.

“How are you doing it?” Valjean asks curiously when Javert directs him north-east in order not to walk onto a sigie coven.

The reply is a bit irritated: “Doing what?”

“How can you hear them? Sigies are mute after all.”

Javert sighs. “I am in no mind to explain it to you.”

“Is it what you learn as a diviner?” Valjean is interested. He’s never had the chance to learn about what diviners actually do and what they are capable of. He has always known that they are like a human form of seekers, down to their favouring of poisons.

But then, he has never seen Javert to use any toxin or a drug and he had seen Javert nearly every day during his time in prison. Truth be told, he is a bit surprised that Javert remembers him, after all he had been one of the anonymous wretches-

“Your strength was remarkable.” Javert’s amusement is barely covered and Valjean yelps at the realization that the man’s statement fits as the answer to his pondering perfectly. “And also the fact that you broke out two times.”

“How-”

Javert doesn’t let him finish: “Diviners are taught to keep their ears and minds open, Valjean. You are thinking rather loudly. And so are the sigies. There aren’t many people who think quietly.”

Valjean is horrified: “Are you reading my thoughts?”

“No, I am not,” Javert shakes his head. “I am overhearing them, it is different.”

He barks a humourless laugh. “Different? It is still invasion of my privacy. You are rummaging about my head!”

“I am not rummaging about anything,” Javert crosses his arms and frowns at him, in spite of the fact that Valjean is walking in front of him and is unable to see him.

Valjean scoffs: “Then what are you doing?”

“I already said, I am overhearing. It is the same as if you heard two people talking to each other on the street - you know what they are saying even if it was not your intent. It is very rare for people to think quietly, but also even more rare to think clearly like you do.”

The other man stops and regards him with a puzzled look: “So you what? Do you hear muffled thoughts of other people all the time?”

Javert wipes the sweat off his forehead and fixes the queue of his hair, because the last low-hanging branches haven’t been merciful to him. “Of all sentient beings, as far as I am aware, yes. But only sentient beings like you, I, sigies, the Rynjinn, Trynnie or even the Rapax… I cannot hear animals though. And I don’t do it all the time, because in crowded places it results in a horrible headache,” he winces at that, he learned the hard way.

Valjean is fascinated. “I see. So it’s not like you can actually read my mind,” he says with a lot of relief.

Javert deadpans: “Oh no. I can definitely read your mind. But,” he adds hastily when he notices the horrified look on Valjean’s face, “that requires a lot of focus and preparation for me. I am not doing it right now. And I won’t do it unless I absolutely have to.”

They continue walking and slowly the hills give way to jagged granite massive laid bare to wind. The first bats take flight. Valjean is excessively trying not to think about anything and the occasional snickering from behind him tells him how spectacularly failing he is at that task.

And then suddenly Valjean turns around, the sword halfway out of the scabbard, his face cold as stone.

“_Bolatu!_”3 Javert barks out, the words leave his mouth shining electric blue and tangible.

Valjean finds himself unable to move. The magical restraints glow around his wrists and neck, holding him tightly in the place. No, not in place, they are pushing him back against the hill where a rock rises from it. The white haired man lets out a pained wheeze which proves itself a mistake, as the spells only tightens in response. The cold stone he has been pushed doesn’t dig into his back only because of the backpack.

“Did you really think you could catch me off guard?” Javert’s voice trembles with hate and his hands with exhaustion. He is a diviner, not a conjurer. This is not a spell he is very well familiar with. But fortune smiled upon him and allowed him to immobilize that highwayman in monk’s robes! “I _know _you.” It costs him all focus, every effort. He feels his hair sticking to his scalp and forehead with sweat. The spell won’t last for long.

Valjean struggles to speak, struggles to breathe even, but words manage to get past his lips: “Hhh, it’s not -” He cuts himself off when he notices it.

It is a shape. It is silent, large, mostly hidden in shadows. It is crouched behind a large stone which fell free off its mother rock years ago. Two limbs ending in spikes raised, it is ready to pounce.

Valjean has only a moment to act, there is no time to think. His left hand yanks itself free of the already failing magical bond and darts to his waist for the dagger.

It is a good throw. It has to be. The best Valjean ever remembers himself performing. The blade hits the beast right between its eyes and digs deep into its skull. The death is instant.

Javert turns around a split-second later, his concentration slipping off the magic. Valjean falls to the ground and begins to cough. His head is spinning, the rush of air in his lungs is intoxicating.

The diviner comes to the horrible realization that if it wasn’t for Valjean, he would have been the one dead. He pushes the thought aside, as a diviner of the Moon Legion he has had more than a fair share of narrow escapes - this one certainly isn’t going to be his last one.

Instead he examines the beast as he pries free the dagger from its blunt head. The two large pincers give it away very easily as a modai. A sentient-seeming ape-like creature, carnivorous. And unfortunately always moving in packs. Javert wipes the dagger clean into his robe absent-mindedly.

Valjean has already picked himself up from the ground, his legs still tremble slightly, and goes to reach Javert who hands him the dagger back.

There is no word of apology. There is no word of thanks either. Valjean does not feel victorious or vindicated. There are only two tired men, one of them realizing that his lack of trust has just nearly killed him, and the corpse of a modai.

Finally Javert says: “We need to keep moving. No doubt there are more nearby.”

\---------

1Technically it should be Arnika-Trynton Road, but the author has always thought that name sounding rather stupid.

2Javert would argue that he has been stuck with one the whole day if anyone bothered to ask him. In fact, he’s been waiting for a chance to mention it. However, Valjean has given him no ground to start this rant upon the whole day and doing it out of blue would be stupid and petty, especially this late in the evening. Besides, Javert is an ass and his opinion in this particular case doesn't matter.

3The amount of research which went into this one word is something this fic deserves a medal for. Wait, this fic is younger than AO3 having the Hugo Award. This doesn't count as contributing to winning that, right? Damn. Can somebody nominate this for a Nebula?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case you couldn't tell, diviner in my telling is a non-combat police psionic. Javert's work is mind sensing, mind-reading, scrying, spying and also engotiating (namely: Charm). But also he is the person who can cast Identify, so... 
> 
> BOLATU is a Mage Spell of Level 2 which can petrify up to one enemy. [[source?]](https://wizardry.fandom.com/wiki/Spells#Mage_Spells) I took some liberty and translated "petrify" as "restricts movement."


	5. Trynton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two main idiots are captured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes up in the length for the Arnika one.

“Someone is following us,” Javert whispers. 

“Here?” Valjean eyes suspiciously the trees sunk in darkness. It began raining and there seems to be little inclination of it to stop. In a desperate attempt to find some kind of a shelter, Valjean has lead them downhill into the forest. The countless leaves are a poor roof leaking in many places, but it is at least something. 

“Who could be following us here?” Valjean hushes his voice like Javert. 

The diviner looks behind them, although in the darkness he can make out only the most vague of shapes. “I am afraid we’ve crossed the border of Trynton.”

“Trynton doesn’t go this far west. We still have at least ten full stadiums.”

Javert turns to him and hisses with a worrying urgency to his words: “You have been locked up in that monastery for a long time, haven’t you? Borders move. And we should get moving too.”

He sighs and adds, “Too late,” half a second before a roughly woven net hits him squarely in the head and another one wraps around Valjean’s back. 

A cacophony of high-pitched victorious shrieking descends upon them. 

  


Valjean is trying to see the positive side of their situation. For a starter, they no longer have to bother themselves with building a camp for the night. He doesn’t share his thoughts with Javert. Firstly, Javert would give him one of his very angry glares which he reserves for people of astounding idiocy, and secondly whenever he tries to say something, the Trynnies poke him in the ribs with their spears. Not enough that it hurt, but enough to remind him that it _very _easily could.

The Trynnies outnumber them four to one and all of them are armed. Javert surrenders without a comment. Valjean follows. Both of them know that if they were wanted dead, they’d be dead already. As it is, their best hope is to comply.

They are half escorted and half dragged1 for another two hours through the night forest in what could be called silence. As it is, the two human men are tripping over risen roots, unruly stones and fallen branches and twigs.

“Ouch,” Javert yelps as he tumbles to the ground. “What was that for?”

“Silence,” squeaks one of the Trynnies. So far they aren’t able to tell who is in charge of this party. “Get up, move along. Move, move, move, move it.”

“You tripped me over your spear,” Javert growls angrily. It deserves him another poke, this time in shoulder.

The whole group has stopped moving because of this. You don’t want to2 stray from your group in night-time Trynton. Valjean was quite glad for that, because he is tired and his legs have been complaining about working overtime ever since they crossed the bridge over the river Trinae, which in his memory served as the western border between Highguard and Trynton.

Another two Trynnies drag Javert back up and push him forward. The diviner is just as tired as Valjean and he hasn’t got it in him to complain or protest, he just stumbles where he is manoeuvred to and hopes that wherever they are going they are going to get there soon.

And indeed, after another stadium and half they come to the Trynton the Great Tree3 itself. Among the twisted roots sits a group of watchmen, their torches are the only light in this place where the crowned branches of Trynton obscure the sky completely.

“Who goes there? Are you of the Night, of the Lords, or of the spirits deep below?” asks a high pitched voice from beyond a wooden mask adorned with many feathers, colours of which change from midnight dark to flashing reds and oranges in the flickering light of the torches. A great number of wooden spears is pointed at the party.

The Trynnie who tripped Javert over his spear, if the diviner is to be trusted on that statement, replies: “Chills, chief. It’s just us.”

“Ah,” the masked Trynnie nods, now speaking normally, “Palas, hey. How’s it going?”

Valjean, who is mildly hysterical due to the mixture of sheer exhaustion and fear and the whole stress of today, cannot help but chuckle at that. Soon he begins to laugh hard enough to start crying as well.

Then he hears a sound most horrible, as if the earth itself had opened behind him and decided to throw out ancient beasts. He turns around to find Javert laughing with him. _By Phoonzang,_ Valjean thinks, _if this is what Javert laughs like, I certainly do not desire to find out what he is like weeping._

“Your whole hunting party is for laughs to these two trespassers.”

Palas sighs: “Yea, yea, sorry chief. We’re supposed to get ‘em up there.”

“So I’ve heard,” the chief (Javert and Valjean cannot tell if it is the Trynnie’s actual title or if it is just a matter of speech) nods. “Well get moving then, I haven’t got the whole night for you lot.”

There is an entrance into the tree, shaped out of the living wood. The whole place is illuminated with lanterns with living fireflies, the big and slightly aggressive kind, so everything seems to be green.

Valjean takes one look at the row of ladders which go up through the “ceiling” and already feels his fingers and arms going numb. What would the fall be like?

But instead of the ladders Palas goes to a remote exit where a rope is hanging. The Trynnie yanks it violently a couple of times.

“He’s ringing a bell,” Javert mutters to Valjean after he notices his puzzled look.

Valjean turns to him: “You can tell that’s a man?”

“All Trynnie names which end with ‘_as’_ are for men.”

One of their captors squeaks: “Quiet!” Javert let’s go another ‘ouch’ and bends over, because this poke was certainly not gentle and it went straight to his side.

Another Trynnie turns to the first one: “But he’s not wrong, Frizzle. Sure you don’t have to be an ass to him over that.”

Frizzle stabs the spear right next to their companion’s foot with an angry scoff. “Might be. But he’s of the Legion. You can’t just let a cop snuff around and spill as he likes. You can trust a Highguard, especially a moonish cop.”

Javert growls: “Can’t trust a kleptomaniac squirrels either.”

Frizzle pokes him with the spear again, this time hard enough to make Javert yelp and whine. There is going to be an ugly bruise left. “That’s a kleptomaniac squirrel with a very sharp point for you, mister.”

“If you have finished over there,” Palas sounds rather impatient, “the lift’s here. You two on the platform. Madren, Puzzpas and Kilikas also. The rest of you after your duties. Go, go, go!”

Valjean is relieved that Frizzle doesn’t go with them. Puzzpas is revealed to be the one who tried to talk her down and Kilikas, as it turned out in the green light of the fireflies, is blind on the left eye. Madren… Well, to Valjean Madren looks just like any other Trynnie, really: Short, lanky, covered in grey-to-lightly-brown fur, with big eyes and snoot, wearing only leather breeches which hold it together with rough thread and a miracle. And of course, a whole doyen of short but light wooden spears in their special quiver carried on the back, because Madren is a hunter.

He doesn’t protest, and steps on the lowered wooden platform along with the three Trynnies and, after a bit of rather physical persuasion, Javert. After looking up, Valjean notices that above them is a shaft into which go four strong vines, each one bound at the corner of their platform.

Palas gives the rope on the side yet another yank, now even Valjean can hear the distant cheerful ringing from above. After a moment, the platform begins to move up with creaking.

The Trynnies sit down and he follows them. Javert remains standing, are that if he allowed himself to be seated now, he wouldn’t get up again.

They go up in absolute darkness. Valjean feels two warm six-fingered hands on each of his arms, and cold draft on his face, he smells bitter wood and wetness in the air, he hears the platform creaking, the vines complaining against their weight, and Javert’s breathing of which each is more laboured than the previous one as he is trying not to fall asleep standing.

And then after several minutes which seem to stretch on forever there is a blinding light. It takes Valjean too long to understand what it is he sees: sunrise.

In the east the sky is already turning purple-wine as Valjean can see it through the leaves and branches of Trynton itself. The top of the trees are below them now, only the Great Tree, Trynton is above them.

“Well don’t just stand there!” Palas pushes him off the platform on the wooden bridge. The whole city of Trynton is built on wooden platforms and bridges, half fixed and half hanging in the air.

Madren and Kilikas who have been holding him the whole time help him to get up and lead him through the aerial maze. When Valjean turns around, he notes that Palas, Puzzpas and most importantly _Javert_ are not following them. He cannot see any of them anywhere!

He tries to bring it to Madren’s attention as they enter a house woven together of living twigs: “My friend-”

She laughs at him, coldly and without amusement. “Friend? You call that head-hexer a friend? Oh, what a sad life you have to live.”

“But he-”

“Is not with us, yes,” Kilikas fills in. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let myself trouble it. Get that armour off yourself, get some rest.”

Valjean decides to humour them before they return to poking him when he doesn’t do as they like. He is too tired to lower the metal gently, it falls to the ground as he unbuckles the straps. Madren turns him around where sees a bed, which resembles a nest made of furs and blankets.

As he sits down, he asks: “Am I a prisoner?”

“Well, you can’t leave if that’s what you mean,” says Kilikas. “But you’re not charged with a crime,” Madren adds reassuringly.

“Is Javert going to be alright?” Valjean has to know. He has to know. Their whole mission depends upon it. He feels his eyes falling shut and sleep taking over him. He fights it to the best of his abilities, just so he can hear what the Trynnies say.

But they do not give him an answer.

\---------

1Or rather poked, really. Every Trynnie when given a spear loves to poke things. It has to do something with the reach.

2A commemorative footnote: Excluding footnotes, the entirety of this story up until this point consists of 24601 characters, not counting spaces. Any proper Les Misérables nerd should be made aware of that. Due to editing, this footnote has been moving wildly, so... bonus kudos for the effort?

3For some clarity: The city of Trynton is built in the six branches of Trynton, the Great Tree, which stands at the centre of the Trynton forest. The inhabitants of Trynton belong to the race named Trynnie, sometimes in ignorance called the Trynton nation or Tryntonians. The river which encircles the western border of Trynton is called Trinae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell, I love Trynton and I love Trynnies. The lore bit about names which Javert says isn't anything confirmed, however withing the game you encounter 5 named Trynnie: Sparkle, who is a girl (and...very annoying and also joined an alien army), Fuzzfas, Madras (my babe!) and Shaman Das, who are all men, and Chief Gari whom I don't remember pronouns but I think he/his is also used. The point is that every named Trynnie with the 'as' suffix is a male (but not every male has the 'as' suffix).
> 
> At this moment (24th August 2019) I have dumped all 5 chapters I have written for this prompt so far. Most likely you'll be able to click on that fancy Next Chapter button right away, because I'll be/I had been (my POV/your POV) writing more. If that is the case, try to imagine that this chapter is the last one and there hasn't been an update on this fic a month.  
What happened to Javert? Will he be okay? What's going on in here?  
(You know how the style of writing such fics goes: Javert will end up in a predicament, realizes he needs to stop being an absolute jackass and it cracks him open and vulnerable to Valjean and they'll carry on while trying to figure out the old question What The Hell Are Feelings And How Do I Stop Them. So I offer you a better question to ponder before you continue reading: What is it the Trynnie have against Javert, aside of him being a cop?)


	6. The Seventh Bough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert gets a very serious talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... Long. And full of talking.

Javert is almost falling over as he walks. He doesn’t know where the two Trynnies are taking him. They have separated him from Valjean and in the moment Javert is too tired to be worried about it and too tired to be puzzled that he would feel worried about losing that man in the first place.

He barely notices that his backpack is taken from him as they reach a large building built from living wicker-wood. The air is thick with pollen and tension and heavy with a sweet scent the diviner cannot place, and the smell of half-withered rotting greenery.

The Trynnie who is called Puzzpazz by his peers knocks on the ornate door and it opens after a long while. Javert is pushed inside. His guides/slash/captors do not follow him, instead a quartet of another Trynnies take him by wrists as soon as he crosses the threshold.

He finds himself in what looks like an overgrown garden closed within four walls. There are three other exits, he takes a notice, because in his line of work it is vital to know where exists are at all times, no matter how tired you are or how many feet up in the air you are, in this particular case so high up that were Javert to jump off Trynton, he'd have enough time to regret every single one of his life decisions twice before he'd transform into a sticky meaty puddle on the ground.

“Don’t even think about that,” one of the four Trynnies hisses. The voice is low pitched enough for Javert to assume it is a male before he reminds himself that he has no way of telling, because voice isn’t what gives the gender away, not for Trynnies. He could try to guess from the shape of the skull, but the Trynnie’s face is obscured with a round mask. In fact, all four Trynnies are similarly masked, the back of their head covered with a long strip of cloth which reaches down on the ground.

_Oh. Oh no! _Javert tries to close his mind, but he is too weak to resist the four psionics looking straight through him and reading him like an open book. He is too weak to writhe himself physically free either. Were he rested, then perhaps, but certainly not like this. He expects pain, whether an assault or interrogation he doesn’t know or care.

There is nothing like that. His presence is merely acknowledges as the psionics, or Readers as these Trynnies call themselves, lead him through the garden to one of the three other door. The sweet scent thickens and already tired enough to fall asleep standing, Javert now has to consciously fight against his eyes closing. Each blink is a battle and eventually he loses and blindly lets the Trynnies drag him towards wherever it is they are taking him.

The air becomes more moist and itchy with incense. They must have passed through the garden and are now inside. The wood creak under their feet and then suddenly the ground quietens and softens. Javert’s shoulders are pressed down and unable to withstand even this little force, the man collapses to his knees. He feels thin stalks woven together. A reed mat.

One of the Readers forces him to raise his head up and Javert cannot help himself but whimper because the tug at his hair is not gentle.

Something is pressed against his lips. The sweetness hits Javert’s nose painfully, no longer it is a sweet floral scent, now the only proper word for it is stench.

“Drink.” The command sears through his brain like a hot iron brand, it moves is whole being, it becomes a part of him, it is his him in that moment. He drinks. The liquid is viscous like honey and tastes like honey if it was made by bees tripping high on tree frog poison and if honey sparkled and fizzed on tongue much the same way magic nectar should but doesn’t.

Javert’s first thought it: I bet that it’s purple in colour.1

Javert’s second thought is: There was no need to charm me, the could have just ask me to drink it. Kleptomaniac show-off bastards.

He hasn’t got a third thought. His consciousness fails him.

Jacert comes to himself and immediately knows that statement is false. He doesn’t feel his body. He hasn’t got a body, but nevertheless he sees himself as having one. Technically speaking, he isn’t actually seeing anything. It is one of the brain self-defence mechanisms.2

The nature of mind and soul is very complicated, complex and many-dimensional. Mortals, especially those who aren’t born into a psionically open races, have a very limited ways to perceive and interact with them. They can train, however, but they find themselves opening new senses which they didn’t have before and for which they have no names or even words to describe them.

For example pixies are born with six senses: one to perceive sound, other to perceive colours, one for physical touch, one for scent, another one for taste and the last one for auras. They can descibe things as quiet or loud, colourful or monotone, smooth or rough, smelly, sweet, sour or bitter, and _thaqi_ or _mazzil_. But when humans begin to perceive auras, they lack the proper words and experience, and so they try to describe them with words for other senses. That is quite manageable, because auras are very simple in nature.

Thoughts are far more complicated and indescribable with a language which knows only five senses, all of which are strictly materially centred. One would simply go insane. That is why the mind protects itself and translates complex and interwoven thoughts into something it can understand – to things it can see, hear, touch, smell and taste.

What Javert is perceiving is a lie, but a lie that is a truth twisted in a way he can understand and comprehend.

The exhaustion left in his physical body behind, he pulls himself up with ease and takes a look around. He finds himself in the same room which the Readers have taken him into, but he is able to see it with greater clarity, each twig very distinctive, the flowers blooming under the roof more bright in colours. The smell of decaying greenery is gone, only the sweet hypnotizing scent is left behind. But without an actual body, the dizzying effect of it is gone. Were Javert another man, he would call the sensation pleasant.

This is not how his memory recalls the room, however. Javert figures out he is not alone.

He turns around to face whoever it is that wishes to speak with him in such a strange manner.

To the surprise of no one it is a Trynnie. The creature is leaning on a piece of wood which is half-way between a club and a staff, and the face is covered with the most hideous wooden mask Javert has had the displeasure to see.

They look at each other in silence before the masked Trynnie sits down on a fur and motions to Javert to follow his example. The diviner is nearly sure that there weren't any furs a moment before, but now that they are here, they have always been here. Nevertheless he makes himself comfortable on a hogar pelt.

He speaks first: “I assume I am in the presence of the Shaman.”

“That you are,” the Trynnie nods.

“That is strange. I always assumed that the Shaman of Trynton is a real person.”

“That I am,” the Shaman nods again. “Although your learned opinions on what is and what is not real might clash with that statement. Nevertheless, Trynton indeed has a shaman, his name is Cas, and I am him. But I am also every shaman who came before him, every shaman that will come after him, and even some shamans who will never be. I am _the _Shaman.”

Javert sips from his bowl of tea. The tea is completely his doing, to keep himself calm. Otherwise he would be raging at the absurdity of all of this and the Shaman's attitude. “You have me brought here to give me a lecture?” he asks with a smirk playing on his lips.

“Yes.”

At that Javert can only stare.

The shaman unclasps his mask and lays it down between his knees. He speaks softly: “I know the quest you and your companion have. And I know it will fail –“

“We will no fail!”

“– I know it will fail, because of you.” The Shaman's face is serene as he speaks, he ignores Javert rising to his feet in anger. “As the Shaman, through my future eyes I can perceive the future. The world will end in flame and fire, and you will be to blame, Javert. No one will know of that, for you will be dead by that time, but perhaps you should know.”

Whatever the magic of this place is, Javert feels the strength leaving him. Suddenly he knows the Shaman is speaking the truth, he sees the future laid bare and charred before his very eyes. “Why tell me?” he asks, voice broken.

“Because it can be changed.” Now it is the Shaman who takes a sip of the tea. “I see the future as it would be based on what is _now_. If you remain to be the person you are now, Dominus will burn. However, should you be capable of change, Tryton might last long enough to see the Ascension.”

Javert only stares blearily as he sits back down. Everything feels heavy.

The Shaman takes the mask in his hands and traces the complicates swirling patters carved into the wood. “As a Reader, have you been taught the nature of aspects?”

“I am not a Reader,” Javert whispers. “I have nothing in common with you whatsoever.”

“I acknowledge that the gift of the Reader is very scarce among your kind,” the Shaman hums, “but that does not make it any less true that you are one. Perhaps it is safer within Highguard to pretend that you are only a skilled diviner, perhaps it is even possible. But here? Everyone in Trynton has recognized you for what you are and you know it. And even here on the Seventh Bough you are denying the truth.”

The Shaman pours himself another bowl of tea and drinks it slowly. Once he is finished he says: “You are silent. Why?”

“There is nothing for me to say. Denial is not an option. I admit, I was born a Reader, but in the Highguard such like me are cast out of the society. I have spent my whole life pretending not to be one and training not to be one. You asked me if I have been taught about the aspects. My answer is thus: No, for I had no teacher. But I know of them well enough.”

There is a nod of understanding that yes, they can return to the original topic. “I believe that you have realized that this place is, just like me, an aspect. The Seventh Bough, the place of truth and revelation. And I, the Shaman, no introduction needed.” He chuckles at the latter, but then his face turns serious. “The Demon-Godess on her own is also an aspect. It wouldn't be important if Ceirdan had not defeated her before. She, however, kept coming back.”

Javert is confused: “What does that has to do with anything?”

“That is difficult to explain, but allow me to try nevertheless. Aspects shape the world around them, they create certain patterns.” The Shaman having finished his tea puts the bowl down and fills it with water. The surface stills and three black figures begin to move as if the water was a window.

The first figure has great horns and long claws and large breasts, but only the outline of it is seen. Javert recognizes it anyway – the portrait of the Demon-Goddess. She rises and leaves a trail of fire wherever she steps.

The second and third figure are harder to place. One of them bears a sword and is accompanied by the other figure, the smaller one with the bow. The swordsman beheads the Demon-Goddess and is slashed with her claws in turn. The smaller figure then carries the wounded one back to wherever they began, and returns to the great world where it tells the story of the swordsman's bravery. The swordsman passes due to his wounds, the other of old age. And then the cycle begins anew, the motions are repeated.

The swordsman, as Javert realizes, is Ceirdan. The Shaman nods, as if he could see his thoughts. (Javert corrects himself: The Shaman nods as he sees his thoughts.) Then he says: “Of course, you know who the other person is.”

“Acknowledging that in Highguard is heresy. Ceirdan had followers, yes, but not a companion.”

“How Highguardian of you indeed. Agnostic as the Cosmic Lords would have you, but quick to put the label of heresy on anything that does not act to your world-view,” the Shaman scoffs. He sends the bowl of water flying to the entanglement of climbing vines with bright pale-yellow blossoms. The water splashes in all directions, but mainly lands on the wall, the ground and Javert's back.

It is not a wise action to anger a half-spiritual entity whom you are trapped in a hallucination with. “Yes, of course I know her. Twitchy, also known as the Seer.”

The Shaman is still displeased, he has even put his mask back on, but he nods anyway. “Yes, a bright young girl. There were others like her. And others like Ceirdan. The Protector, the Seer and the Demon-Goddess are locked together in an eternal battle. Whenever the Demon-Goddess grow too strong and dangerous to Dominus, the other two come reborn and extinguish her. She then rises as her own daughter, like the flame-bird rises from its ashes and the cycle repeats.”

Javert senses some kind of a response is expected from him, but he has no idea what it should be. He only hums in understanding.

“The cycle is important,” the Shaman stresses, “this world cannot exist with the Demon-Goddess, but neither it can do without her. Likes the seasons must change in succession, so she must come and go. The details may differ, but the patter must remain whole.” He sighs a heavy sigh as he concludes: “And then you broke the cycle. Now, go.”

A door appears, or perhaps it was there the whole time, quite possibly both. Javert takes his leave. As he is about to walk through the door into the blackness of sleep, he hears the Shaman cry out behind him:

“Javert, is there truly no one whom you could confide in as a Reader?”

And Javert only shakes his head.

\---------

1 That is wrong. The potion is actually mauve.

2 I am sorry, there is going to be a bit of a tangent there bothering with the limitations of human senses, languages and briefly brushing with philosophy. Feel free to skip the four following paragraphs with the following summary: Javert’s brain is hallucinating true things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I haven't mentioned yet: I love Trynton. I love the potential in W8 lore, but except the existence of Ceirdan and the Demon-Goddess, who is better known as Al-Sedexus in the game (here she bears a different name, tho), I had to make all of that up.


	7. Upper Trynton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean has an existential crisis in a towel, Javert is late to a feast, the Shaman is the bearer of bad news.

Valjean wakes in pain. His muscles ache, his whole body is a testament to strain and soreness. But that is not the cause of his waking. In his sleep his nose has picked up the scent of a fire and hot fat and spices. Also somebody is poking him in chin.

He opens his eyes and faces a Trynnie. It is notably smaller than the others, obviously a youngling. “Wakey-wakey,” the child cheers when it notices he is no longer sleeping, “duck and flakey.”

“Unghhh.” Sitting up feels like a nearly impossible task. “What?”

“Food, Human, there is food.” The young Trynnie shoves a shallow wooden bowl right under his nose and thus Valjean identifies the source of the poking and scent.

The dish is a spiced roasted duck with apples in sauce of fried oat flakes and honey. And Valjean is starving, because yesterday his food was on the go and only light. No cutlery is offered to him and he doesn't want to press the matter because he is not in the position, or so he feels. He eats with his hands, crispy oat flakes flakes soaked in fat stick to his nails, palms and fingers, to the corners of his mouth and some even get stuck between his teeth and he had to dig them out with his tongue. Despite everything the meal is only very small. Valjean no longer feels starving, but he certainly isn't sated.

He then notices he is alone with the Trynnie child in the room. His backpack and armour is stacked neatly by the door. The armour has even been cleaned. The child is sitting on an upside-down laid basket and kicking feet in the air. When Valjean's attention is noticed, which is soon, the youngling asks: “What about a bath?” Valjean takes that offer gratefully.

As it is revealed, the bath has already been prepared – a wooden tub is already filled with water in the room across the wicker-work hallway. The water is cold but the whole room is very warm because of a stone basin filed to the brim with hot coals. Valjean is given some privacy to wash the sweat and travel off his body. When he is done with it, he feels a bit more like a Human being and far less like a monster.

When has it began that he felt like a monster in the first place? Valjean doesn't know, but this is his theory: Every one of us feels always a bit of a monster. After all, if Lord Phoonzang, tall He stands among the stars, had raised the Humans from apes as it is taught, then indeed Humans are monstrous in their origins – just look at the modais, the northernmost apes known on Dominus. But peopl can choose not to do things that are monstrous. But if the choice is denied to them or if they choose the way of pain and cruelty, the feeling of being a monster comes closer to the surface. And the more monstrous one feels, the more they are inclined to act like one, creating a circle which it is hard to break from the inside.

Valjean had been a highwayman once. He likes to think of it as if it was another life. That is not true. He does not like to think of it at all. Nevertheless, it had happened, and the man had initially chosen that life out of poverty and desperation. Everything else that came consequentially after, however, was without Valjean being given any other option. In that time indeed Valjean was a monster, merely more than a beast with Human face.

Of course, he was captured and imprisoned within Arnika. The Moon Legion prisons were of the highest security in the whole Highguard, and although Valjean had managed to escape his cell and the correction facility1 three times, he had been always brought back and his sentence was prolonged for it.

Once free man again, Valjean entered the monastery north of Arnika and a few months later, after a few accidents he isn't exactly proud of, he joined the Brotherhood of Ascension and began to call the monks his brothers. (The story complicates here for a bit, but it is good to know that both the child and her mother are safe now, and also far far away.) Needless to say that Father Karles and the Brotherhood helped Valjean to become at peace with himself, to find the humanity he had lost somewhere along the way.

And now many years later there is Javert again. Valjean met the diviner in the prison where he served as one of the guards. In that time the man was just an uniform, lash, and cudgel without a face. He had to be later transferred to the Legion active interstate forces if he became a diviner, and upon Valjean's official release it was him who was always breathing down his neck, in spite of Valjean's further innocence.2 But Javert lost him when Abbot Karles and Brother Fauchevelent, mainly the latter of the two, convinced Valjean to join the Brotherhood.

Javert is a reminder of the painful past. Jean Valjean cannot look at the man without remembering what he himself used to be, and neither can Javert, obviously. If you are treated like a monster, you live up to the expectations. Valjean has known from the beginning that the quest to find Ceirdan's weapons would not leave him unchanged, but after this reflection he makes wrapped in a towel as he frantically searches for clothes to wear, he begins to think that it is going to change him for the worse. This thought frightens him.

The young Trynnie appears though another door and with her a gust of breeze from the outside, and in their hands3 they are holding folded cloth which reveals itself to be Valjean's yesterday attire minus the armour when it is handed over to him. The clothing has been cleaned and it I still warm to touch. The youngling explains: “Pops are really good with wicker magic.” It takes Valjean a moment to realize that wicker magic means magic used in household, because all Trynton houses are are a work of wicker-wood, like large baskets, except from living twigs and branches. It is another amazing realization that among the Trynnies is magic used so freely and for such minor things such as washing clothes.

Then again, Trynnies have always called themselves the Chosen Ones. Never stated what they are chosen for, but Valjean supposes that if something is going to appear, why not to claim the right beforehand. Truth remains that through their veins magic flows as easily as blood. That is one of the reasons Trynton has never joined Highguard – the kingdom's heavy restriction and moderation of magic is not anything the free-spirited squirrels overflowing with mana could live with.

“Oki doki,” the Trynnie exclaims in joy. “You were taking forever, man. Are you broken or anything? Pop says you Human are fragile like glass, you know. I though I'd be late for the feast because of you.” The door is opened for Valjean. “C'mon, go go go, you're standing there like a toadstool. Are all Humans so fond of standing in places?”

Valjean doesn't offer the child any answers, only a question: “Feast? What feast?”

“Oh, the Shaman said that there should be a feast for you or something. That you are going to slay Al-Desirax and return peace to Trynton and all, so you shouldn't be doing all of that on empty stomach.”

Valjean's brow furrows: “Javert and I are only seeking the weapons of Ceirdan.”

The child doesn't seem concerned by that as they walk through Trynton. It is early afternoon, the air is warm, the wind gently swings the rope bridges and the leaves whisper and sing in the air along many bright-coloured birds and busy insects. “Oh yeah, but where do you think those weapons are, eh? I've heard all of it, you know, what the adults were talking about.”

They arrive to a large platform covered in soil from which hickory trees are growing, their roots growing through the platform and entwined with the main body of Trynton. In the mild shade there are many wooden and wicker tables heavy with food, fruits and roasted meat, and as far as an eye can see are Trynnies wearing flower crowns and necklaces. Before Valjean can protest, he is adorned in kind and he does not feel brave enough to take the accessories off. The fair blooms reveal to Valjean that the crowns and necklaces are woven from zuzu; a climbing buttercup more resembling an orchid in its blood which is both wild and sacred in Trynton.

The Trynnies, even the guard and hunters, are nothing like yesterday. They are over-friendly to Valjean, handing him plates of small bites and cups of drink. There are seven types of drink going around: First is jasmine-like tea, second is wild berry juice which the Trynnies drink just as it is and which Valjean waters down, third is mulled mead with seven kind of spices which is not given to children, fourth is the wild berry juice but slightly fizzy with beginning fermentation, fifth is water still cold and fresh from Trynton, sixth is Trynton brew which has never seen hop in its life, and seventh being cold zuzu tea mauve in colour sweetened with so much honey that Valjean does not dare to guess what it would taste like without it.

Like the cups go from lips to lips, Valjean is moved from a group to group until he finds himself at the very end of the park sitting at a table next to a Trynnie with a very ugly wooden mask. The mask does not cover the Trynnie's face, instead it rests atop of the head, because its wearer couldn't drink the zuzu tea otherwise.

“Hello, Jean,” the Shaman smiles. It must be the Shaman, to Valjean it is clear as day, although he could not explain why. “Are you hungry?” Valjean finds himself being handed another plate with bits of roasted duck. He takes it gratefully, but if the eating is going to continue at this pace, he is soon to be stuffed perfectly spherical.

For a long moment there is silence before the Shaman smiles and says: “I am certain that you have questions. Ask them if you wish so.”

Valjean doesn't even think about it. “Where is Javert?” he demands to know.

By the look of it, the Shaman has expected a lot of questions, but definitely not this one. Still, he answers: “Your concern for him is heartwarming. Currently I am talking to him at the lift to the Seventh Bough.” Valjean has to look very puzzled, because the Shaman chortles and adds: “I don't have to be physically present for that conversation. Your Reader will be joining us soon.”

A simple nod has to be enough for the Shaman to acknowledge Valjean's understanding. The man doesn't say anything about any of the titles the Shaman has used for Javert. Instead he sips his cup of water and asks: “What was it the child said about the weapons of Ceirdan?”

The Shaman takes the mask off and puts it down on the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Mazeki will one day become a great scout,” he sighs, “and it will be that when she learns to keep her tongue behind her teeth.”

Valjean patiently waits. Eventually, the Shaman gives in: “I have my Eyes in many places. Two days ago they have seen a Rynjinn raid party enter the monastery north of Arnika from the sea side. They pursued, but lost them, but the report mentions it was a group of nine, the equipment they carried, and that their leader had yellow fins. Yesterday my Eyes witnessed a most peculiar meeting where the swamp meets the Silver mountains in the north-east; a hunting party of eleven Rapaxs met with a Rynjinn raid party of eight. The Rapax corporal talked to the yellow-finned leader of the Rynjinn and received a bundle from him. Then the hunting party slaughtered the Rynjinn and left north, presumably for their castle.”

“So the weapons are not in Bayjin,” Valjean sighs deeply. It should be a relief, but being in the hands of the Rapax King, and what worse the Rapax _Queen,_ was definitely not an improvement, in fact it was everything but.

“So the weapons are not in Bayjin,” the Shama confirms. Then he slowly stands up. “Eat. You will need the strength in the days to come. If you excuse me, I have to officiate a wedding. Go around, make friends and laughs. If not for your on sake, then for the sake of others. We can feel the darkness coming and my people need to be reminded the sun still rises.”

And so Valjean does. As he talks and mingles, he feels the weight of expectations settle on his shoulders. But along with it comes a certain determination. He realizes it when the child from earlier, now Valjean knows her name is Mazeki, asks him what the word kleptomaniac means and later calls Javert a buffoon for talking like that about her father.

Valjean finds the buffoon in question as the sun begins to set and the park fills with lit candles. Javert looks tired, but somebody has forced him through a bath as well, even his hair is combed. He looks at Valjean with bleary eyes and smiles weakly: “Oh, there you are.”

Valjean pushes his own cup to Javert's hand: “You certainly haven't eaten or drunk. Here.”

Javert sniffs at the zuzu tea and carefully puts the cup away. “How many of that have you had?”

“Oh, well... I don't really recall. As much as I had water and somebody jested that I am going to empty the river.” Valjean tilts his head curiously: “Why?”

Javert blinks a few times. “For no reason. You'll have rather interesting dreams tonight, I suppose. I have been told that we should leave tomorrow before dawn,” he turns the page of the conversation sharply.

Valjean nods. “I have been told that the weapons have gone to the hand of Rapaxs. Surely they have taken them to their castle.”

Javert's expression goes through anger, bargain, and finally settles on depressed acceptance. The diviner helps himself to the nearest cup of mulled mead and only because Valjean is there with him, plying the man with food and water, Javert doesn't get drunk to the point of regret.

1That's the official term for it, the Moon Legion likes to think they are the good guys and that they aren't having prisoners, but instead that they are helping some lost souls to be found. In the very private thoughts of diviner Javert: “It doesn't correct a shit.”

2Mostly. As said, Valjean did a few things he wasn't exactly proud of but hey, no one in the monastery was mad at him for it and it's not like he killed anyone! And those candleholders helped Fantine and her daughter to start a new life, so it was a good action, if a bit unlawful. Everyone except the Moon Legion seemed to understand that. The Moon Legion is a bunch of self-entitled bastards and they don't need to be taken seriously unless they are swinging the business end of their mace at you.

3Trynnies do come from beastfolk, but we aren't furries in this fic, so if it has distinct fingers, we aren't calling it paws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Comments, maybe?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, congrats! You made it to the end! Or to what passes around as "the end" in this place, anyway. Now shoo, shoo, go [admire some decent art.](https://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com/)


End file.
